


Five to Fifteen

by DandylionPuff



Category: Dress Up! Time Princess (Video Game)
Genre: All The Ships, Multi, One Shot, as canon complicate as I can, more to come later - Freeform, writing the fleet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27586319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DandylionPuff/pseuds/DandylionPuff
Summary: Drabble one shots based on the map interactions with the characters from Dress Up! Time Princess.Will mainly focus on my favorites but I’ll try to cover everyone at least once.
Relationships: Chapur/Gina, Elizabeth Colvin/Davis, Elizabeth Colvin/Vittorio Puzo, Marie Antoinette/Blaisdell (Dress Up! Time Princess), Marie Antoinette/d'Eon de Beaumont | Madame Beaumont (Dress Up! Time Princess)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 87





	1. Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> I love the map interactions so much and I’ve been wanting to write fics based on them for awhile. I’ll try to be as canon as I can but some chronological details may be rearranged for the narrative.

It’s hard not to feel a little jealous when she talks. Her voice just oozes class. Every syllable polished by the years spent on that degree she’s so proud of—but there’s a hint of something in there that draws him in. A little lilt that makes his ears prick. A drawing of the vowels that won’t leave her. It’s barely noticeable but it gives her away. She may have gone to a fancy school but she’s cut from the same cloth he is. That calico pattern that’s woven from leaping from one opportunity to another. 

He loves listening to her. It reminds him of the sweet stinging aftertaste of mint and the burn of a good cheap bourbon when it goes down smooth. It’s delicious the way she talks. It makes him feel slightly ashamed of his own brutal car crash of a voice. Italy, even after all these years, never quite left him and it refused to assimilate with the dialect of his new home. The result was mortifying in comparison so Vittorio unconsciously limited his voice in her presence. Besides—when he talked less she talked more. 

She breaks him from his silence with a tilt of her chin, “Am I boring you Mr. Puzo?”

He adjusts his collar absently and leans in to focus on her, “Impossible Miss Colvin.” His eyes roam from the clump of angel hair pasta twined around her fork up to the silver waves framing her face as he wracks his brain to think of what she had been speaking about. He had been following the cadence but not the words. He squints thinking.

Her cheeks flush under the scrutiny.  
“I’m sure idle gossip isn’t very useful is it?” she mumbles between forkfuls.  
The Sparrow Room. Right. The basement—She had been telling him the girl’s rumors of Juliano’s nasty little operation. 

The corner of his mouth hitches into an apologetic smile, “Forgive me Miss Colvin. I’m a little tired. It’s nothing personal.”

She forgives him wordlessly. He likes that about her too. How easily she falls in step with him. How smoothly they work together. How she follows his lead almost like dancing. He would like to dance with Miss Colvin someday. After Juliano is dead. If he can keep her around that long. 

He sighs and shakes himself, halting the train of thought from derailing again. He reaches for a piece of crisp bread in the little woven basket between them and tears a piece off with his fingers. 

They keep running into each other. He keeps running into to her. He keeps running towards her. His feet these days find themselves inexplicably drawn towards her area of town. He deludes himself. The seats in the Manhattan theatre are more comfortable than the ones in Queens, the sandwich from the diner near the Gotham Times is more authentic, the tailor more careful with his slacks. All the pretense falls away when she slips out of a door into the rain splattered side walk. He just want to see her. Without the lights of the Sparrow Room shrouding her face, without Juliano breathing down her neck. Just Miss Colvin au natural. Out in the wild where he can pretend she’s up for the taking, if she wants him. 

She thinks he’s only keeping an eye on her. Thinks he only cares about the information—about Juliano.  
He lets her think it. It makes it easier for them to be alone. He likes keeping her to himself.


	2. Night visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapur awakes from a nightmare

He wakes up with a jolt of air that leaves him panting. The terror from the nightmare lingers in the pounding of his chest even as the memory of it fades into the darkness around him. The bed creaks under his weight yet a smaller noise is the one that snags his attention. A tiny gasp like the fluttering of a bird’s wing. 

He smirks. It’s as close to a smile as he can get these days, “I know you’re there,” he speaks into the darkness. A faint rustle of silk answers him and he chuckles under his breath. It’s Sinbad’s little servant girl. Hiding in the night like a thieving little mouse looking for crumbs. 

He reaches under his pillow and palms the silver trinket she’s after. In a less cruel world they could trade—the silver for the lamp but the world is not just. He needs both. So instead he offers words. 

“Since you’re here I could tell you a story of my past...” He whispers. It’s a insultingly cheap offering he knows. No one but him cares about his history. No one but him even remember the lines that he has erased from time. 

He hears her shift. He sighs into the night. She’ll leave him soon. He’s not surprised. He’ll let her go and another day they’ll cross paths again to dance around the lamp, bobbing like cobras, flared and wary. 

And yet....

She doesn’t leave...nor does she leave the shadows. If he’s perfectly still he can just barely hear her breathing. It’s a shallow comforting sound. 

Does she? He dares not finish the thought. 

Instead he stretches and rises to stand, “I have a guest. Where are my manners?” He laughs pushing the cascade of dark unruly hair from his face. He does not reach for his turban or his cloak. Let her think him vulnerable just this once. 

He crosses the small space of his quarters and plucks a pale orange citrus from the basket on the low table. He settles himself onto a cushion and begins to peel.

“Do you like fruit?” He questions into the darkness. He holds a piece at arms length. A challenge or an offering he knows not which. 

She emerges from behind a chest. She will not look at him. This amuses him. He extends the offering to her. The loose fabric of his under robe slips from his shoulders. Her brows furrow. He wants to laugh. He is the vulnerable one and yet he has never seen her more wary. 

Gaze fixed past his shoulder she sits as far from him as she can. She does not take the fruit. This time he does laugh, a dry chuckle and pops the fruit into his mouth. Sweet juice floods his tongue. 

He breaks off another piece and places it in front of her on the table before he continues, “I love it. Always have ever since I was a boy,” his eyes crinkle at the memories of a simpler time. 

She glances at him then. A look of mild surprise lifting her brow. She doesn’t speak.

So he does. He tells her everything. He describes the orchards of his youth. Of the exotic fruits long lost to time. Their flavors and their scents. Her shoulders slowly relax. He weaves more words for her as he peels more fruit. 

This time, when he offers, it she takes the piece from his palm, “I find it hard to believe you,” she demurs, taking a small bite with a flash of perfect pearl white teeth, “it’s difficult to imagine you as a boy.” 

He chews, “Is it? I was a lot like you.” 

She frowns, “How so?”

He laughs and leans on his arm to look at her. She flushes under his gaze, “I was also incredibly impatient.” 

His eyes crinkle at her and at the memory, “There was a bramble with sapphire berries,” he murmurs plucking it up to weave her another tale, “They grew behind the home we lived in during the dry season. They tasted like the summer sky when ripe.” 

She looking at him curiously now but he continues, “They usually ripened at the end of every summer and I would rush to eat them, but one year when I arrived at the usual time they were not.” 

“What did you do?” She whispers. 

“I ate them anyway,” he laughs, “and got a sore stomach for the effort.” 

“That sounds...terrible.” She glances down at her stomach at the thought. 

“And yet I learned a valuable lesson,” he grins rising from the table. She flinches but he waves his hand to keep her from rising. 

She looks at him now. Really looks at him. Her eyes glow cat like in the dim starlight that pours through his window, “What did you learn?” 

He plucks an unpeeled fruit and tucks it into her hands, “that you shouldn’t take things before their time.” 

He reaches and ruffles her hair before turning and padding back to bed. The silky sensation lingers on his palm. He sees rather than hears her exit through the window. She pauses and he waits breath held until he hears her. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. Then....

“Goodnight Chapur.”

He smiles, his back still turned. Such a gentle foolish girl.  
He waves a hand and slips back into bed. 

“Goodnight little maid.”


	3. Unique Little Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D’eon savors a hamburger and time with Queen Marie.

Puffs of steam billow around her face like clouds as the wings of lace on her sleeves flutter with each twist of her wrist. He hides a grin behind his hand and stifles a laugh. It’s in these moments when the little bird of Versailles really earns her nickname. 

She chirps and shoos him away from the bubbling pot, “Don’t look D’eon, it’s not ready yet!”

The silk of his petticoats tangle around his legs as he retreats to the table at the edge of the small kitchen. 

The deceptively rustic chateau that houses it is his equal. Both are playing a part to satisfy the whims of royalty. Hiding secrets behind a facade. Disarming all who see them with appearance. 

He let’s the laugh escape from his throat as he settles into his chair, “...but how will I know if you’re cheating, little bird?”

“You’ll just have to trust me,” is her reply.

Ah trust...the one thing neither of them should have. 

He cannot tell which makes him more uncomfortable, the steady rise of the temperature in the room or his proximity to Marie. 

He doesn’t know why she insists on his company. It’s almost as if she thinks he’s safe. Which is preposterous considering the things he’s done for her husband or the things he did before for France —yet despite the rumors she’s surely heard she seeks him out like safe harbor. It makes no sense. 

She pours a dollop of whatever was in the pot over two plates and lifts her chin proudly. It’s an amusing habit of her’s to sneer down at her accomplishments. She gathers them up and glides over to set one in front of him on the table. 

A raft of ground meat swims in a sea of sauce and vegetables. His eyebrows raise, “and this is?” He asks skeptically.

She blushes a pretty pink, “it’s a hamburger.” 

How easy it would be to pretend. That they live here just the two of them. Normal people with normal lives. She could be his sister or his lover. 

She could be his friend.

He gulps down the thought, “If you say so....”

He cuts himself a large bite. There’s no point in needlessly offending the Queen of France by feigning skepticism. He lets the excess sauce drip onto the plate before shoving the mouthful between his teeth. 

His eyes widen. It’s actually good. 

It’s her turn to laugh. It’s a beautiful sound that fills the room with light. He swallows and takes another bite. 

She’s on the edge of her seat. Her shoulders are tense and her cheeks are pinking from holding her breath. He realizes suddenly that she’s waiting for him to say something. 

That she cares what he thinks. 

He could burst from laughing. What an amusing little creature his queen is! 

“How interesting.” The words slip from his lips before he can stop them.

She starts. Her head tilts curiously. The feather in her hair flutters like a crest. He stifles a grin. 

He shakes his head and hides himself behind a grin, “Little bird, I had no idea you were a culinary genius!”


End file.
